death poem

 
I.
 
Upon the hills
The air was dry
And dead trees hung
Beneath the sky
 
As cold wind blew
The snowflakes fell—
A frozen kiss
From icy hell
 
The boy was young
Of thirteen years
His father weak
And full of fears
 
The trail grew bleak,
They couldn’t see
And as it snowed
The boy did plea
 
“My father, now
The path is nigh
Without some warmth
We’re soon to die”
 
“My son, Noël,
Let’s shelter take
Within that shed
By Frozen Lake”